


Never Done

by sasha_b



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Comment Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:43:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl's work is never finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Done

**Author's Note:**

> For comment fic on Live Journal.

Daryl's bow is held tight in his hands, the arrow nocked, his eyes tight on the trees. He's called the girl's name about a hundred times, it seems. Rustling to his right, and he snaps his gaze to the scrub brushes there, wondering -

will she come this time -

 _Sophia!_ he screams, and the leaves shudder in deference to his vehemence.

Nothing.

He scouts the area in an ever widening circle, looking, crossbow held at the ready, arms never tiring, sweat trying to blind him, his 'beater sticking to his back. Dirty, smelly as fuck, tired, but he looks.

And looks. The old house had seemed promising, especially when he finds the open closet and the tin of food and the blankets. His heart slams a crescendo in his chest, but his outward calm radiates an aura around him, lips pursed, waiting -

_Sophia!_

Nowhere, nothing.

It's full dark when he returns to the farm, and he slings his bow at last to his back, stopping to wipe his face at the pump that drizzles warmish water. He mounts the steps to the back porch and Carol's there, the dancing light from the lanterns that flicker scratching shadows over her cheeks and her eyes are wide, hopeful, open and he -

he stares at her, not afraid of the truth of _this_ day, but this is only one day. He'll find that girl. He will. There is no other option. 

He accepts the glass of lemonade (Jesus, he's not a kid) from her and slugs it down noisily, ignoring the mosquitoes that flock to his neck, digging their proboscises into the skin, the blood flow tiny and he couldn't give a rat's ass. She continues to meet his eyes as he hands her the glass back. They don't speak.

"Did you," she starts at last, and he cuts her off by passing by her on the porch, heading toward the door and a place he can sit down for two seconds. Daryl Dixon does not give up. He does not fear anything. He will find that little girl. Fuck everything else.

"Tomorrow," he grunts and the screen door slams shut behind him, Carol crossing her arms and remaining outside. Daryl drops his bow and quiver onto his bed roll, the single white blossom of what his mama had called Cherokee Rose rolling out from among the arrows, his large boot crushing it as he crosses to the kitchen, silent, alone.


End file.
